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Hugo stood there, shaking his head. He knew what he had experienced. Max. Galahad. Flying on broomsticks. Riding on Guinevere to the Raskins’ store to propose to Alice, only to have it interrupted by failing to enter the security alarm. Dinner with the Savinos. Confronting the Savinos and being turned into a vampire. Storming his old house. It was real.It was all real.He experienced it. He lived it. He knew it to be real.
Yet, here was an image of a man. The man he used to be. The man he no longer was stood before him. The images of Elizabethand Alice were slightly off. Something was different about them, like a dream or a nightmare where the details weren’t accurate.
Yet, there was nothing off about his visage. It was as if a mirror was held up in front of him, perfectly reflecting his own likeness. He was chanting the same words he had muttered over and over without fault. He said those words the night of the funeral. He sat in the chair. Drank the wine. Hugo was alone in his house, in the dark, and he had no idea what to do next.
“I—I don’t understand,” Hugo said.
“You sat in your chair, night after night, drinking your wine to numb the pain,” Thaddeus said.
“Why did you have to leave me?” Hugo’s visage said.
Thaddeus stalked around Hugo, moving from side to side as he spoke. Hugo never took his eyes off his image.
“You did everything you could to numb the pain of losing someone you loved. You made it all up. You told yourself a story to hide the pain, but it wasn’t good enough. You still lived in a reality where you were alone. Lost. Hurt.”
Thaddeus’ words tore at Hugo, pulling him back into dark recesses he had long forgotten, but it was still there. The pain he experienced was never gone, but his reality became so much more than his grief. The pain filled less of his soul.
At least, he thought it was. Hugo found himself slipping back into old habits. Old thoughts. Not confronted by the loss, but the pain he went through. The pain he was forced to endure all over again.
“Why did you have to leave me?” Hugo’s image muttered once more.
He dropped the hockey stick. The graphite shaft bounded off the hardwood, but Hugo never flinched. He reached for his ring finger. The ring was gone, but his body knew what to do. He gave two twists. His ghostly image did the same.
Thaddeus placed a hand on Hugo’s shoulder. “You drank at night to forget, but the morning always came. You tried to dull it further. You drank to the point you were numb to life and slipped into fantasy. You wanted to stay, live in your fantasy, but you never could. Then one night . . .”
Thaddeus let go and backed away.
Hugo breathed in and out with short bursts. The memories flooded his mind—at least, he thought they were his memories. In the memory, he repeated the same thing over and over until one day, the wineglass slipped from his hand. The world went dark, and he found himself here.
Hugo fell to his knees. “No. It’s not true. You’re in my head.”
Hugo’s face burned as the mask took its final form. His cheeks sunk. The searing pain engulfed his jaw, intensifying as the mask constricted his face, turning him into a terrifying, monstrous being. He slipped into the darkness, succumbing to the pain and despair.
“Give in,” Thaddeus said. “It’s the only way.”
Hugo collapsed to his hands. His forehead rested against the hardwood. The pain seared through his body. It was too much. Hope faded. The room darkened. There was nothing else. There was only the void. It was over. He had failed.
Alice wasn’t coming. There was no Alice. It was all in his head.
“Why did you have to leave me?” his image begged in the same sorrowful tone.
Hugo turned his head to see the red velvet Victorian couch where Alice once sat, or he had thought Alice sat. He wanted to see something joyful before the mask took over.
“I’m sorry, Alice. Elizabeth . . . why did you have to leave me?”
His eye glimpsed something under the couch—the object missing from his hand. The object held so much power andcontrol over him. The one thing that, if it was all real, it wouldn’t have been missing from his hand. The half-broken black onyx wedding ring.
With every ounce of strength Hugo had left, he focused on his left hand. The ring was gone. His ghostly image still had the ring, but it was missing from Hugo’s finger. It was a false image. A false memory from a horrific place.
Their lies weren’t true. Max was real. Alice was real. The purple house was real. Galahad. Guinevere. The Savinos.
They were all real. Alice was coming, and he knew it. He had to keep fighting until she arrived. He had to hold on to hope and keep going.
Keep moving forward.
He let out a low growl, summoning all his remaining power. Hugo placed his palms onto the floor. With all his strength, he pushed, picking himself up. His growl grew as he picked himself up from the floor. He rose to one knee. Placing his hands on his knee, he lifted off the ground.
He stood tall, shoulders back, chest puffed out, and head high. He used his forearm to wipe away what he thought was drool from his mouth. He snarled at his image, his icy blue eyes piercing at his target.
